


Fallen

by orlesiantitans



Series: 100 Themes [25]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6547072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orlesiantitans/pseuds/orlesiantitans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flirting with Zevran was almost too easy. After letting down Leliana and Morrigan as gently as possible, he pursued the Antivan with no resistance whatsoever. Perks of being a incorrigible flirt who liked another of the same preferences, he supposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen

The Circle wasn’t a place made for love. He’d never let himself feel it, instead settling for quick trysts in corners of the library, bookcases sturdy enough and providing enough cover to conceal what was going on. Daylen Amell never had to know the dangers of falling in love and losing it, because he never let himself fall in love. It was foolproof- he had friends, people he could care for from a distance, but anything else? He kept it at an arm’s length, dismissing any attempts at it with a bland smile.

His first kiss was with one of the kitchen maids. First sex was with a fellow mage, her robes around her waist as they got the act over with as quickly as possible. Second sex was with a man, and this time it was _his_ robes around his waist, as the elven man rutted into him.

He liked the men better.

He managed to charm his way through a lot of the circle. Dark hair, green eyes and a crooked smile gave him something a previous lover had dubbed ‘boyish charm’. He took his Harrowing when he was nineteen, and was thrown out a few hours later. He honestly figured he was the shortest-lived Harrowed mage in the Tower. Aside from, perhaps, Anders. Though they always managed to get him back- Daylen certainly wouldn’t be going back. If he survived joining the Wardens, he’d be stuck with them. Honestly, though, he wasn’t complaining. As if he’d want to spend one more day getting glared at through slitted helmets. As far as he was concerned, Duncan was a gift from the Maker.

When he got to Ostagar and met Alistair, he immediately wondered if the other man would be up for joining him in bed. But even after just a few attempts at flirting with him, it was clear that wouldn’t be an option. The former Templar was awkward, unsure, and- judging by the way he’d stared at Cauthrien and not at any of the men- only interested in women. Daylen was many things, but he wasn’t the type to try and seduce a man of that persuasion.

He wasn’t pleased when he was made to light a torch. He couldn’t understand, for starters, how that was an appropriate use of a _Grey Warden._ Beyond that, he wanted to help with the battle. Judging by Cailan’s overly cocky attitude, he’d need all the help he could get. Regardless, he didn’t much fancy going back to the Circle, so he did what he was told with the minimum amount of fuss.

He wasn’t sure how many hours, or days, had passed when he eventually woke up and immediately was greeted by a pair of breasts inches away from his face. While his mind wondered what he’d done _right_ , the breasts heaved a sigh and he was jerked from his thoughts by a slap on the back of the head. That seemed to put his brain back in order, and his eyes reluctantly moved up to meet the eyes of the Witch of the Wilds. He groaned and turned onto his front.

“If the Maker has rewarded my years of relative faithfulness by taking me to his side and putting me in a room with a woman unlikely to sleep with me, I respectfully ask that he move me somewhere else,” he muttered. He heard the witch give a snort and he moaned in frustration. The Maker was so cruel to him.

“So ungracious to your hosts, after we saved you from certain death at the hands of an ogre!” she retorted, and he turned his face to her, one eye open and brow arched in question.

“Wait… I’m not dead!” he jumped to his feet with a grin. “I’m not dead!”

She looked at him, unamused, “How wonderful. I’m certain the world will be bettered by your presence.”

Despite his initial elation, his face quickly melted into something more solemn, “What happened at Ostagar? Where’s Alistair? I…”

“Ostagar was lost. Teyrn Loghain fled the field. The King is dead, as are most of the Wardens,” she gestured outside. “Your fool of a friend woke a while ago.”

He was out of the door almost before she finished speaking. Alistair was standing by a small lake, and the relief on his face was palpable.

In that moment, friendship was born. And it was an odd feeling- a friendship not like the one he had with Jowan, something true. Something real. He found he didn’t mind the weakness it would no doubt bring as much as he’d thought he would.

* * *

 

“So… they’re both fighting over you?” Alistair whispered. Daylen grumbled something under his breath.

Alistair snorted, “Two beautiful women fighting over you, and you hate it? Yes, how awful it must be to have people lusting after you!”

“You only say that because you’re not stuck in the middle of that tug of war,” Daylen retorted. His fellow Warden looked about ready to reply, but a woman turned up in that moment, asking for their help. By the time they realized it was a trap, it was too late.

When that final Crow introduced himself as ‘Zevran, Zev to my friends’, Daylen knew he was screwed.

* * *

Flirting with Zevran was almost too easy. After letting down Leliana and Morrigan as gently as possible, he pursued the Antivan with no resistance whatsoever. Perks of being a incorrigible flirt who liked another of the same preferences, he supposed.

Fucking Zevran was more of a pleasure than he’d usually admit. Possibly the best he’d ever had- but it would make sense. It was nice to have more than fifteen minutes free for a quick shag.

Falling in love with Zevran was something else altogether.

He wasn’t certain when it had started. Somewhere between that first kiss and the comfort sex after the Circle, he’d fallen in love. He didn’t admit it, though. Not until Taliesen had been killed. Zevran tried to give him the earring, and then actually did give him it. All of a sudden, they were engaged. And he didn’t actually want to run away.

Then Riordan told he and Alistair one of them had to die. Next thing he knew, Morrigan was atop him, and he had his eyes squeezed shut, wishing it was Zevran. He felt sick to his stomach, betraying the man he loved like that, but he had to live, and Alistair had to live. They were best friends, and he wouldn’t make Alistair Ferelden’s shortest reign. He couldn’t.

The wedding took place three months after the defeat of the Archdemon, in Denerim’s Chantry. Officiated by Leliana, blessed by the King, and with a golem in charge of the rings. It was the most bizarre, beautiful thing he’d ever been part of. And when he kissed the man he’d married?

Falling in love suddenly stopped being the terrifying prospect it had always been in the past.


End file.
